


Dantalion

by Angelas



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Language, M/M, Pining, Porn, Slow Burn, and tension, and the delicate threadings of plot, but also emotion, prosodic metric, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-28
Updated: 2016-01-28
Packaged: 2018-05-16 20:50:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5840518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angelas/pseuds/Angelas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Thranduil becomes distant and Thorin heeds whispers of Thranduil's rumored re-marriage. And torments himself with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dantalion

**Author's Note:**

> this is all autheane's fault tbh. she prompted me with drabble and then it got way out of hand.  
> also, thanks to [bae](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Vivian) for being a fabulous beta<3

**oOo**

He’d grown apart from him.

Fair and long and far.

And the days, they slugged on as cruel as the dead-hours of rain-laden nightfalls, for Thranduil had at some point ceased his phantom visits for each numbered instance in which he would be welcomed to tread upon the deeper halls of Erebor’s couloirs; had at some point ceased the taut secret knock of his hand upon the solemn door that led always to Thorin’s desolate quarters.

And it had been through the reel of several months since Thorin had first been thieved of Thranduil’s presence, of his warm white palms and of his cheerless taciturn visage—yet it had always been from within the darkened secrecy of Thorin’s bedsheets wherein Thranduil’s faraway grimace would at last uncloud itself and re-brighten, those few precious minutes in which Thorin would kiss apart his soft grinning lips if only to touch, fuck, _disrobe_ him.

And Thranduil would leave then by morning as any other morning, in silence. To rule forthwith his land of wood-grove and shrubbing. Yet, the hot naked memory of him would loll ever-through and remain. For months at a time the scent of his myrrh-raveled hair would linger and lay, far inside the fur-furrows of Thorin’s wolf-pelted blankets; there in which Thorin would sit and wheedle himself in his quietness that by the very first forenoon of the incoming season Thranduil may perchance want him and seek him and need him...just as before.

But that forenoon no longer came.

Not like before. Though the visits of homage were plenty as always.

Coarse speech and endless orations, tributes of lumber and fabrics and herbage. And Kili and Fili would be there, chinned forth and gallant with their princelike demeanors of backbone and courage while Thorin himself stared blandly in languish through most of the sanctions.

And in circles it went. Wherein Thranduil would look to the right and Thorin would force his neck to the left, ever vain ever militant, as if the elf-king himself did not know already the sins which nestled between them.  

That is, until that evening swept forth (that evening of banquet in which the elves of Mirkwood made mirth enough with Erebor’s dwarves), an evening in which Thorin had over-listened midst covetous whispers that perhaps the elvenking had found consort for which to vie after nearly three epochs of spouselessness. That he had stirred at long last betwixt a too-lonely rule, that he had begun to rove and to wander upon the more flowered vales of his Mirkwood.

Thorin’s chest, in that moment, cooled into a bone-pressing slush, his face cold and his fingertips frozen. And even as the reveries dallied and lasted from all sides around him, Thorin wore no glee nor symptom for it.

For he held no callow _spur_ for it.

To falter so openly for the sake of one dratted fairy. Not until he’d quite enough of Thranduil’s continual shunning—of his tortuous scorn and of his effortless taunting—to the point in which Thorin could detour it no more: this growing vacuity leaching in wax with all of its blackness and cruelty, so deep into the hollowing lorns of his pulse and his heartbeat, to have imagined Thranduil with her—whoever may be _her_ —side by side and evermore married till the day Thorin would fall at long last to old age and be ensepulchered and _buried_ —

He stood. After so long the hour.

And from against the metal-hewn bolster of his seat, Thorin announced in but a few rumbled words, his feigning exhaustion.

He retired to his chambers both calmly and promptly, ignoring the questioning looks of his nephews and of his wise-cousin Balin, three of whom might have known better had they wanted.

**oOo**

One other had read through his lie, however.

And after nearly four years of dismissing his existence, Thranduil had shown his face to Thorin by the end of that evening.

He’d knocked on the door, five times in all, and by the last, Thorin had finally stood up and plainly unlatched it.

In stepped Thranduil, the echoing stone shutting behind him.

Lucent and silvern and stunning. Yet this time, Thorin did not bother to note it.

Instead, he glowered midst shadowed annoyance as Thranduil simply stood there, stagnant, as if waiting for Thorin himself to step forth and begin to fawn and undress him.

And if Thorin were honest, that was, indeed, how it often went to be.

Amid Thranduil’s wordlessness. Things he only ever murmured through the traction of teeth neath the high-throes of acts which at times sowed the seeds of reaction. Of hands and of skin and of wandering fingertips—the friction they'd bring, coated slick with scented oils and greed—that of which swelled and then soddened between, the crazed onslaught of their bodies once they finally melded into a nightful of sonorous fucking.

And by morning, nothing more would ever come from it. If not the occasional political mummery. Of Thranduil dressing in silence and then of callously leaving, never once glancing at Thorin.

And now, seeing it all so clearly, Thorin began to feel a fitful clenching in his stomach twisting. A thing of suddening heartache, a sting of frailty.

“You wanted nothing true of me,” growled Thorin, and it was a difficult thing to have growled in the first place. “If not of-flesh, of _lubricity_.”

Thranduil did not answer. Only stared. And there it was, those wise and doelike eyes affixing Thorin with their un-emotion and maddening strangeness.

“This will burrow no farther,” spoke Thorin, his tone labored, as if his breath had been at once nuzzled and squeezed. “Leave. I have no need of you this night, or any other.”

Now Thranduil approached him in stride. A velvet winter tower that glimmered aloft.

“And why should it be as you say,” Thranduil reasoned, his voice a liquid landslip that laved. “When you have apparently grown childish enough as to presume my vocations.”

He stopped, inches apart from Thorin, and in one single motion, sunk down to the great bear-rug of the floor, his hair a gentle spill of silvers and gold-yellow tendrils that wrapped and adorned him.

There in the umbrage Thorin watched as Thranduil curled forth his tongue and ran it smoothly across the white grooves of his teeth, his pale limbs all but bared midst the thin samite robe that he now drew up to his waist in a simpering fit of shameless bemusement.

Ever slower, Thranduil settled back on his elbows.

He gestured, the invitational tilt of his neck. Then, he opened his legs.

In that moment, Thorin faltered—Thorin _knelt,_ taking his rightful place, at last, in between the thighs of Thranduil.

**oOo**

He despoiled him quickly.

And so desperately did he lien him. As if Thorin had never once ago felt nor tasted the flesh of Mirkwood’s all-hallowed king.

And Thranduil allowed him. To tug at his hair. To mark and to suck at the flesh of his thighs and his chest and his skin. And when at first Thorin kissed him, Thranduil laxed his own mouth, as if graciously offering a small well of honey to the ill-willed and hungry. To Thorin alone, who lapped and consumed him.

“You could crave no other,” sighed Thranduil. “Could you.” He chuckled. Breathless. “Not like this.”

Thorin gnarled. Silenced him, claiming his lips. Still, Thranduil managed:

“And I would allot you no longer the thrill of me, should you ever blunder in this.”

Now Thorin reached, grasping Thranduil’s full-hardened cock, and with a single stiff stroke of its breadth, stole the breath entirely from Thranduil’s lungs.

“You allot me nothing,” growled Thorin. “I alone care enough to avow it.”

“Sentimentally so,” plied Thranduil through the air of his gasp. “And _anxiously_.”

But Thorin’s heart weighed still too heavy to deny even the core of such an obvious sting. Not now, when his cock swelled and ached to the mere imminence of finally being buried so far inside of his foe, after so much time of simply wishing it, after so much time of being _without_ it.

And Thranduil’s face, ever sweet ever lovely. With his offish eyes of eldritch oceans. Soused in through the vanities of his countless centuries, of his faultless shape, his swannish symmetry, all, wrought forth from some shallow shore of a fallen Beleriand, upon the white spires of a wasted Doriath, borne of blood of some tigerish father who had once been slain betwixt some impossible battle, too long ago.

Thranduil.

Ancient and beautiful and naked _beneath_ him, this tearaway being that Thorin both spited and painfully cherished.

Spurred, Thorin kneed open Thranduil’s legs, heart-like and widened. And Thranduil let him, and reclined back into the brown fur of the rug. There in which he crossed the heft of his thighs against Thorin’s powerful hips which now bucked and stirred themselves in veer of his cock-length.

And in that moment Thranduil erred to have held down a gasp of barefaced excitement, the instant Thorin had positioned against him and _pressed._ Not bothering at all, at best, to ease nor prepare him. For this Thranduil laughed in his face. And grinned.

For now Thorin learned slowly, that Thranduil was no tender thing. And that Thranduil’s inattention and attention in the reel of this epoch are for him, for this stalwart dwarf-lord of ever-borrowed years.

Thorin, mountainous king who held the sun and its light in his rib.

“Fuck me,” Thranduil told him, plainly, cradling Thorin all the tighter against him. “Show me.”

And that is all that Thorin would ever need, when he ebbed Thranduil open with cock and began to swiftly reave inside him.

Indeed, the feeling of it was requiem wetted. And ever heightened once Thorin gazed upon the winded expression of Thranduil. The moan he bit down glossed over upon the parted rim of his lip, the air of which he now reached for and swallowed. Thorin’s hair draped them, a rippled cocoon which adjoined them, the moment Thranduil raised both his arms high above the golden sea of his hair, as if he wished desperately for them to be shackled or chained into place.

With force, Thorin fucked farther in, breaching through the initial clenchings of Thranduil’s muscle. And shivered, for the sensation was well beyond lackadaisical dream-states, of reworked pieces of past burning memories, those of which he had been forced to recount in his solitude.

In that vengeful manner Thorin pushed forward until he’d sheathed himself entirely, filling firmly, at last, the fluttering hole of Thranduil. Until Thranduil himself could no longer bear the silence he'd previously warred to sustain, and parted his mouth, instead, to have allowed the occasional whimper and groan to escape him.

Here, within the instance Thorin had slipped out and then battered back in. And Thorin, he moved and besmirched in punishing claim. Amid the merciless wave of a dozen ruthless hammer-blows to the elvenking's hole which thundered in flesh across the cavernous well of the room.

And Thorin took him and spoilt him through without pause nor neglect; the unmeasured freight of his strength careening in the way in which he swept with his hips, as if he were _made_ for the sinuous doings of things such as this.

And Thorin did not once relent in the space of that hour, not until Thranduil had at last lost his repose and had begun to babble and beg to the ceilings. His long white legs a tangle that shook from against him now that Thorin had hooked them upwards to rest upon the broad props of his shoulders so that he may gore ever in, so that the elf-king’s sotted hole would be generously filled with whatever Thorin would give it.

He watched him. Observed him, wanton and wretched. Lain so low from the higher ells of his vanity, pleading only for cock and absurdities, and in the moment that Thranduil stiffened and quaked with his eyes wide and gradually rolling, Thorin knew he’d be coming in earnest.

And did.

In lochs of white, painting them both at the navel and chest. And soon even Thranduil’s disheveled despoilment became too much for Thorin to bear. When Thranduil had at last fallen limp into a nonsensical trance of mewling and full-bodied trembling, his arsehole a merciless tumult of spasm and twitching, an elfin marvel, perhaps, wherein caressed and milked away the remainder of Thorin’s abiding resilience.

Not long hence did Thorin piston in with his hip, and viciously, to the full breadth and to the very hilt of his prick, thrice-times. And spent.

And he spent potently.

In rivened spates of ribbons, all of which potted and nestled deep into Thranduil’s alabastrine body. And all of the rest of which rivered outward and didn’t: a dribbled come-choke which wept from the hemming pink clasp of Thranduil’s hole.

Thorin groaned. Growled forth a dwarvish word of accursement, when his head had craned and hung low, heaving for breath amidst the nerve-numbing end of his belated completion.

They stayed that way for a minute-less while.

Gasping for breath and ever conjoined, as Thranduil at one point garnered sense enough as to have lifted his hand in order to hover upon a single lone strand of Thorin’s thick hair, tracing it at length with the delicate ghost of his finger, and said:

“ _Cormlle naa tanya tel’raa_.” And his tone was too soft and too distant. “ _Mankoi_ …”

But Thorin did not understand him.

Nor did he care to.

Not when he leant inward, and in a timeless rapture of fever, closed the distance between them.

**oOo**

**Author's Note:**

> Cormlle naa tanya tel’raa = Your heart is that of a lion
> 
> Mankoi = Why


End file.
